


i will wade out

by ilija



Category: Bleach
Genre: Alternate Universe - World War II, F/M, Slow Burn, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-04
Updated: 2016-11-04
Packaged: 2018-08-29 01:07:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,439
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8469898
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ilija/pseuds/ilija
Summary: The rising sun on his headband dots his forehead like a gaping bloody wound. On either side, kanji decorates it like an advertisement, thick and strong strokes in Karin's steady handwriting making them stand out.
  KAMI ● KAZE
  神   ●   風





	

**Author's Note:**

> the sea  
> does not change  
> and she goes forth out of hands and  
> she returns into hands
> 
> and is with sleep….
> 
> love,  
> the breaking
> 
> of your  
> soul  
> upon  
> my lips
> 
> \-- e.e. cummings

The fabric tied tight across his forehead keeps falling in front of Ichigo’s eyes. Ishida helps him retie it after Ichigo’s gloved hands fumble for too long and it’s the last Ichigo sees of him. It would have been nicer if he hadn’t commented on how there should have been a strawberry drawn on it instead of a 15 otherwise how would they ever find his body? They almost scuffle in front of the fish monger’s stall.

Orihime is the last to say goodbye. One arm toting her son behind her, she uses the other hand to write a small message beside a crude drawing made by Keigo, signing with a flourish. “Now the divine wind _hime_ will protect you!” she teases and Ichigo just rolls his eyes. “Souken wants to say goodbye, too.”

Ichigo can’t ever say no to kids, especially not Ishida and Orihime’s own. Orihime passes the marker to Souken and Ichigo kneels down to his level. “Don’t give me a mustache or else your father won’t ever let me hear the end of it.

“Okay. Can I draw kitty whiskers then, mommy?” He looks at Orihime who immediately claps her hands over her mouth to muffle her laughter.

“No,” Ichigo answers in her place, point blank. Souken, ever the good boy, doesn’t argue. In his crooked five year old's script he writes ‘bye uncle ichigo’ alongside the kanji for GOD. “I did it!” He hands his mother the marker. Goodbye uncle Ichigo, goodbye God.

Ichigo gives Souken and Orihime both quick hugs, scowl softening only mildly as he waves them goodbye.

The rising sun on his headband dots his forehead like a gaping bloody wound. On either side, kanji decorates it like an advertisement, thick and strong strokes in Karin's steady handwriting making them stand out.

KAMI ● KAZE

神   ●   風

God’s wind, divine wind. That’s what Ichigo is, the divine wind of his country. In his pilot’s seat underneath his uniform, his helmet and goggles, he sweats; there’s no wind to cool him off in the cockpit. With finality he starts the engine, a bead of sweat dripping down his jaw.

He attributes the nausea to the altitude change.

The bay becomes smaller, smaller, patterns of city squares and rectangular green paddies shrinking away until all he can see is blue-black ocean. Aside from the running propellers and engine making his ears ring it’s silent. Unlike the seven million times before (a rough estimate, he smirked to himself) he doesn’t feel like he’s flying. Suspended over the ocean held up only by steel and belts, this time he knows he’s sinking to his death in the end.

He should be proud. His sisters are, and if the giant inspirational block of text written on his headband over his brow is anything to go by then his dad is definitely proud as well. Ichigo was proud too, but now his pride is replaced by the uneasy feeling of--

“Shit,” he mumbles behind his mask, “ _Shit_!” This time he yells, the sound bouncing off the windows like the sun’s rays refracting through his windshield, and kicks the floor. His final destination is death--no lives saved. “Fuck!”

Did he sign up for this? For the past three years his father, his sisters, his neighbor and the nation’s radio praised his fellow kamikaze, their honor and bravery in fighting for their country and saving its lives. The divine wind protected their country by killing themselves and others.

What protection is another body in a wall of corpses?

Smoke billows in the distance over an island of steel. Fifty kilometers out Ichigo hollers curses over the ringing in his ears and the beeping of radars and warning alerts. A stray missile hits one of his squadron’s aircraft and it falls into the ocean with a final cry of the engine, sinking stupidly into the ocean with only one wing sticking up before it disappears.

Forty kilometers. Ten people at once start yelling desperately over the radio. Thirty kilometers. “I’m hit! I’m hit!” “Yamamoto’s hit!” Twenty kilometers. “Fuck this! Fuck this!” “Ichigo, aim for the platform, ten o’ clock!”

Ten kilometers. _Fuck this_. Five kilometers. The people on the carrier have features; he can see their faces.

 _"Ichigo_!”

The ocean silences everything in a wash of heavy, quiet blue.

 

* * *

 

 

His arm hurts. His head is hot. Something is poking into his back where he lies. In the distance one seagull calls and another answers. A wave hits him again, splashing him up to the chin and he tastes salt and sand.

 _Am I dead_? Ichigo asks himself. He tries moving his throbbing arm; he’s in pain all over but his arm makes him groan in particular. It must be broken but he can’t move his head to see.

The pain shocks him to reality. _So not dead and not dreaming either. I’ll go back to sleep then_. His eyes are still closed.

A shadow leans over him then disappears just as quickly. His ears pick up on the sound of damp footsteps, slipping now and again on the large wet rocks of the shoreline. When he does open his eyes, Ichigo can only see out of one. His headband has fallen, stuck behind his goggles and cap. With his free hand he rids himself of the extra garb, blinking into the sun.

Salt air stings his eyes. His voice is a dry croak; it takes him a couple tries to make any noise at all. “Hey.”

No answer. “ _Hey_ ,” he tries again, a bit louder, and this time the steps cease. The shadow returns and his pupils dilate so fast that his eyelids twinge in pain. Squinting, he shields his view from the sun with the hand still clenching the cloth band.

It’s a girl, tiny and clothed in a sundress so white and reminiscent of clouds that it reflects the sun. Against her surprisingly pale complexion and unstained dress her dusk-dark hair and eyes are as black and shiny as obsidian, as dark as the large rocks she stands on. In her hand is a piece of scrap metal. Ichigo recognizes the numbers running up the side--it’s a piece of his plane.

Or what’s left of it. From afar Ichigo can see a pile of other charred and jagged pieces of cloth and wire and metal. His radar display floats in a cesspool far too close to the ocean for his liking.

“Hey.”

“You’ve said that three times.” Her voice is deep and steady, a contrast to her young appearance.

“Where-- am I--” he tries to sit up but his ribs hurt in a way that steals his breath; they must be fractured. A pained noise works its way up from the back of his throat and he has to lie down again. “This can’t be heaven.”

“It’s also not hell. You stupid boy, crashing his airplane into the ocean and talking about heaven.” Her hair swirls about her face, stirred by the warm breeze. Saltwater has her fringe plastered to the skin between her eyebrows.

“No, this is definitely-- hell. Having some midget girl yell at me as soon as I wake up--” She continues collecting the bits of metal from the shore. “That’s my plane!”

“Can you fly a garbage can?” She fires back. Ichigo’s a bit surprised by the audacity; the only girl who’s ever dared to snap back at him was Tatsuki, and Ichigo only allows her that because of her mean right hook. This girl from the ocean has the personality of fire and ice combined: chilly in her tone but words heated. “So stay still. Nii-sama is fetching the doctor.”

 _Doctor_? “Doctor?”

She gives him a look. “Unohana-san is a well respected doctor on the mainland as well.”

“Mainland?” The implication has him struggling to right himself, a bit frantic. “So then where the hell is this? Who are you anyway?”

He starts to fall back again, the pressure on his ribs too much to bear until strong but small hands set themselves against his shoulders, palms flat and fingers spread against the wide span of his back. His uniform is waterlogged, dripping down her hands and forearms.

“You're on our island. My name is Rukia. Rukia Kuchiki.”

Rukia. He tastes the rolling R, the deepness of the vowels, committing the sounds to memory. Turning his head to look at her, this time when he speaks his voice is clear and he can see her face more closely, the backdrop of the sun like a halo against her hair. “Ichigo Kurosaki.” She keeps her palms against his back. “Nice to meet you.”

**Author's Note:**

> This is an alternate universe where Ichigo is a kamikaze pilot. Thank you e.e. cummings for your lovely poems inspiring the title and overall feel. I hope I make you proud and I hope you, my readers, enjoy this as well.


End file.
